


Her beloved thieves

by anamia



Category: Doctor Who, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:45:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamia/pseuds/anamia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras starts to respond, only to realize that the Doctor is not talking to him at all. He crosses to the control panel and shakes his head, staring down at it as chuckles still escape from his lips. “You clever, terrible, <i>beautiful</i> thing you. All this time together and you still didn’t take the time to just ask?”</p><p>An 'Every Century Happy' outtake</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her beloved thieves

**Author's Note:**

> So this was originally written for the [Every Century Happy](http://amisdelespace.tumblr.com) project but was eventually rejected for being sad and also partially AU for that 'verse. I highly recommend scrolling through the link, because it's a fabulous project, but the short version is that the Amis+other LM characters find themselves in possession of the TARDIS sans Doctor and travel through time and space having adventures and fixing injustices. Enjolras/TARDIS is official canon, as is his... unusually augmented hair. The project is fairly dedicated to being lighthearted, since both canons are mostly not and it's a nice antidote to the angst that tends to permeate both fandoms. I wrote this fic because Doctor/TARDIS is an OTP of mine and I wanted to play with that in the context of this 'verse. As mentioned it ended up never being posted there, but I like it anyway so I'm putting it up here instead.

“You stole my TARDIS.”

The man before them wears a long brown coat and ridiculous red shoes. His hair falls a little sloppily away from his face, standing up in places as though he has been running his hands through it or running in high winds. His face is creased and darkened with anger, a cold fury so profound and so alien that Enjolras’ own hair tries to stand up on end. He quells it firmly; this is hardly the time and place for a display of his accidentally enhanced biology, amusing as the others find his hair’s acrobatics. This man, the owner of the TARDIS that has loved and sheltered them for months now, the Doctor about whom they have all heard so much, glares fixedly at Enjolras as though daring the young man to come up with an appropriate defense.

“Technically,” Courfeyrac says, “she stole us.” He’s standing casually, but his weight is well balanced and Enjolras knows that he is well aware of the gravity of the situation. Not even a near apocalypse can erase Courfeyrac’s tendency towards pert retorts completely, as they have all had ample opportunity to find out, but his friend is more than dependable in any situation. Now, however, he is probably not helping.

A flicker of something flashes across the Doctor’s face, gone in an instant and replaced by an expression so fixed it may as well have been carved from stone. “Get out,” he says flatly. “Go. Don’t come back and I won’t demand retribution from you. Maybe you don’t know what you’ve done; you’re only human. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, just this once. But don’t _ever_ come back.”

Courfeyrac starts to object but Combeferre, who’s seen the same thing in the Doctor’s expression as Enjolras, holds him back. Enjolras bows his head, recognizing in the Doctor a desperate longing that matches the one he already feels in his own heart, a craving for the stars and the infinite and the whisper of the TARDIS around him each moment of the day. The Doctor has far more claim to her attentions than Enjolras, has spent centuries in her company and developed a bond so deep Enjolras can barely fathom its strength.

“May I say goodbye first?” he asks quietly.

For a minute he thinks the Doctor will refuse, but he nods jerkily. “Make it fast,” he says. Enjolras wonders if he saw the TARDIS’ mark on him in return. He turns and slips into the blue box, relaxing as her presence enfolds him once more. She is worried and sad and desperately happy, a tangled mass of conflicting emotions centered around him and the Doctor and he knows in an instant how hard it has been for her to be separated from him for so long. He runs a hand over the controls, hair stretching out in an attempt to envelop the handles and never let go. It is not long enough and he does not take his hands away to tie it back.

“Farewell,” he murmurs. “I cannot even begin to express what you have done for me or how much I will feel your absence.”

The TARDIS hums almost angrily, a low thrum he feels in his very bones and he presses down on the panel, hand safely away from any buttons. “You mustn’t,” he says. “I know you will miss me, but you mustn’t leave him again, not when he has just found you. I know you have missed him.”

She lets out a short burst of irritation, a violent shake that almost makes him lose his balance.

“You have,” he says. “And he has missed you. But the natural order must return, as Prouvaire would say. It is time for you and he to continue your dance.” He knows that she feels his own conflicting emotions, feels the ache in his chest that may never heal, feels how hard it is for him to remove his hands from her controls for the last time. Her despair joins his and he blinks back tears. Straightening, he reaches for a hair tie and yanks it away from his face, corralling it into as tight a braid as he can manage to keep it from straining back towards her so hard it hurts his scalp.

When he turns around the Doctor is watching him, leaning against the outer walls of the room with an unreadable expression on his face. Enjolras meets his gaze and nods once, stepping away from the main consul and making to exit the TARDIS completely. The Doctor stops him before he can reach the door.

“Do you talk like that often?” he asks, staring at the TARDIS rather than Enjolras.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, seeing no reason to hide information from him, not when she will just tell him everything. He hopes she will not express her displeasure too strongly and wonders if he should have asked her not to burn his tea or steal his trousers.

“And does she answer?”

Enjolras nods.

“A human,” the Doctor says, tone tinged with disbelief. “You’re _human_ and you can talk to her.”

“Much of the time she talks and I listen,” Enjolras says, not at all certain where this is going.

The Doctor ignores him, still staring at the TARDIS’ visible core. Suddenly, he laughs, a joyous sound that seems entirely out of place given the conversation. “ _Brilliant_ ,” he manages. “Oh, you’ve picked up all my habits, haven’t you?” Enjolras starts to respond, only to realize that the Doctor is not talking to him at all. He crosses to the control panel and shakes his head, staring down at it as chuckles still escape from his lips. “You clever, terrible, _beautiful_ thing you. All this time together and you still didn’t take the time to just ask?”

Enjolras feels the ground vibrate ever so slightly and he knows she is laughing. He can’t decipher most of her half of the conversation, an odd feeling that only emphasizes just how deep the connection between Doctor and TARDIS runs.

“Yes, yes, of course,” the Doctor says, and his eyes have lit up now, filling his face with a mischievous glow that immediately explains why so many people have dropped everything and followed this man to the ends of the universe, including the TARDIS herself. He turns to Enjolras, grinning. “Sorry, shouldn’t have let my temper get away with me. Bit of a stressful few months, you know? Has it been a few months for you? Linear time is so restricting and she’s been having fun with time streams, I can tell. Did you know your hair is alive?”

Enjolras blinks, thrown off by the abrupt shift in tone. Beneath his feet the TARDIS hums blissfully. He chooses to answer the easiest question first. “It was an experiment taken too far,” he said. “Some of my friends got a little too enthusiastic.”

“ _Brilliant_ ,” the Doctor says again. “ _Humans_ , always so eager to play with things they don’t understand. Oh, I _love_ your species.” He’s practically vibrating in place, anger tucked away entirely.

“We did learn to be more discerning with what we touched after that,” Enjolras says carefully.

He laughs. “I bet you did. Oh, did she ever take you to see the Science Museum on Beetlejuice? We went to the grand opening years back; I hadn’t had so much fun in _decades._ Some of the exhibits could be better researched, but it’s one of the Universe’s must sees, it really is. They devoted an entire moon just to holograms, can you imagine?”

“We did not have the occasion to go,” Enjolras says, pleased by the steadiness of his voice in the face of being reminded of their forced departure.

“We’ll have to fix that immediately,” the Doctor says, and Enjolras blinks. “Your scientifically inclined friends will have the time of their lives, promise.” He paused, then adds, “Well, unless she manages to drop us off when there’s trouble. Nasty habit of doing that, as I’m sure you noticed.”

“You had asked us to leave?” Enjolras asks hesitantly, frowning at the Doctor.

“Yes, yes I did,” the Doctor says, then shakes his head. “But that was before. This has all been a terrible misunderstanding, but it’s not your fault really. You couldn’t know, and she goes where she wants even with people who know how to fly her supposedly in charge.” There is so much fondness in her voice that Enjolras does not correct his misconception about their ability to steer the TARDIS.

“She has a mind of her own,” he agrees instead and he knows she is laughing at him. Warmth has returned in his chest, chasing away the dull ache of impending separation, and he knows his hair is close to exploding from his restraints and rising halo-like around his head, as it does when he is filled with strong emotions.

“More than that,” the Doctor says, laughing. He holds out a hand, which Enjolras shakes. “I’m the Doctor, as you probably guessed, and you’re Enjolras and we’re going to be great friends, I can tell.”

Enjolras nods, still slightly off balance but regaining his presence of mind enough to realize that the Doctor wants him to be. Still, he likes this man, and he trusts him for all that they barely know each other. “Thank you for letting us stay,” he says. “I am certain my friend Combeferre would be thrilled to visit the museum you mentioned.”

“It’s settled then,” the Doctor says. “Go tell them where we’re going and we’ll get this show on the road.” He turns towards the control panels, fiddling with dials and pulling levers with gleeful abandon. Enjolras grins even as the TARDIS’ fond frustration at her Doctor’s driving style reaches them both. He turns and goes to tell his friends of the change of plans, still grinning, and strips the hair tie from his golden braid before his ecstatic locks can snap this one as well.


End file.
